


Foxhole

by nan00k



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Comedy, Historical Romance, M/M, genre blending, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nan00k/pseuds/nan00k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a brief skirmish in the middle of WWII, an American and Englishman argue about whose foxhole it is they’re sharing. (churchington AU; written for rvb-jamboree; art by Megneato and happyfunballxd!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foxhole

**Author's Note:**

> Our team's entry for the first main round of RvB Shipping Jamboree, for Team Church/Wash. :) I wrote it and [Megneato](http://megneato.tumblr.com/) and [happyfunballxd](http://happyfunballxd.tumblr.com/) drew some amazing pics (at the bottom) to accompany it! Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> **Disclaimer** : _Red vs. Blue_ (c) Rooster Teeth. I only write this mess.  
>  **Warnings** : mixed up historical facts, actual boring historical facts, war, minor character death, minor depictions of war time violence, AU, implied slash

_Northwestern France, 1944_

He was half a foot deep in solid mud in the middle of Ardenne and he was out of cigarettes.

The 67th was supposed to head straight to Rethel and then on through Brussels. They were making slow progress into the German lines, but that didn’t make the trip through the French countryside any safer. They made it as far as Reims when York gathered them around to inform them their entire battalion was being called to the front. Wash hadn’t been surprised; they were one of the few M4 Sherman tanks still in good condition in the region.

It was just his luck that his battalion had been splintered because of the fucking roads. It would have taken the tank crew nearly half an hour to dig the Sherman out of the ditch it had sunken into. No damage, thankfully, but it pushed their captain to send the infantry ahead. Wash was ordered to go ahead with them, to make radio contact as quickly as possible with the rest of the division. The roads had been marked clear for the last two days. The locals had fled and supposedly all of their enemies had been pushed out completely. It should have been a straight shot to Rethel.

Except, it wasn’t, because the supposedly locked down field between the valley and Rethel was suddenly swarming with Germans and at least one well aimed _panzerschrek_. Wash had just enough time to yell out in warning when he heard the hiss of initial firing from by the tree lines—and then everything was chaos.

He knew he was the only guy left standing—at least able to run—because he watched the jeep ignite into a fireball. The only reason he was still alive was because the fireball threw him dozens of yards back toward the other tree line, where they had just passed over half-collapsed foxholes from the earlier fighting, and away from the following German gunfire.

It seemed that the battle over that land had just been temporarily stalled, he realized as he ran as fast he could for that tree line. Wyoming’s report from three days ago was a little too optimistic, then.

He could put the pieces together easily. The debris strewn about the field wasn’t only from his squad’s unfortunate encounter. There had been another attack earlier it seemed, one they had missed hearing somehow, maybe from the night before. Why the Germans had bunkered down there to defend that single road to Rethel was beyond Wash. He just cared about not dying in that muddy hellhole.

Sliding for that last stretch between the rockets aiming for his head and the foxhole before him, Wash tumbled gracelessly into the pit. He didn’t know who had dug it out or when. Maybe weeks ago, when they had thought the actual fighting had finished. The leftover hole in the mud from that first fight was the only reason he was still alive.

And he was alive. Panting heavily, Wash quickly checked himself over. Adrenaline blinded him to the shrapnel in his thigh, but even without field nurse Connie’s say-so, he knew it wasn’t fatal. He was lucky. Luckier than most.

Trying to catch his breath, Wash stared up at the gray sky between the raindrops as he lay in the flooded out hole. The Germans kept firing, igniting the trees around them. He could only imagine how long they would keep it up—

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Wash slammed back into the opposing wall of the foxhole at the unexpected voice. Turning, his grip on his muddy rifle slipped. He was lucky, since only then did he realize that the speaker had spoken in English—and Wash in turn wasn’t already dead from an enemy shot.

To his surprise, there was another man hunkered down in the mud just a yard from him. The hole was narrow, but decently wide, more than enough for at least four men. Wash blinked past the rain droplets on his eyelashes and immediately focused on the uniform the other man wore.

British Infantry. Lance corporal, according to his stripes. Dark hair that was flattened against his skull by the rain. The weather did nothing to temper the burning glare he was receiving from the green-eyed man. A modified Lee-Enfield rifle with a scope lay in the man’s lap. The stranger was just as covered in mud as Wash was.

“Jesus!” Wash swore. He glared at the soldier. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“What are you _doing_?” the Englishman yet again asked, angry. “Get out!”

“Get out?” Wash repeated, bewildered. “Get out and go where? There’s Germans everywhere out there.”

“I don’t know!” the stranger snapped. He jerked his head to the left. “There are more holes that way, filled with equally hole-ridden bastards. Go steal their foxholes, not the one with the living guy!”

Wash stared at him. “How does that even make any sense?” he demanded, exasperated. “Listen, there’s supposed to be a British armored division meeting us up at the road. Once my battalion gets here, they’ll all team up to clear this out and we can move on to Rethel.”

The Englishman’s glare intensified. “What part of _get out_ do you know understand? You’re breaking my cover! They already thought I was dead!”

“You must be kidding me,” Wash said, still too stunned to properly react. “We’re on the same side!”

“No, _you_ are an American,” the man replied, irritated. “ _I_ am supposed to be holding this position for the rest of my battalion. You know, the half that isn’t dead already.”

“How the heck are they going to be coming through that wall of _panzerschrek_?” Wash asked, shrilly.

“These holes are small enough already!” the man snapped, almost irrational. “Go away!”

Wash shook his head. They couldn’t afford to waste time like that. “Listen, pal, I know you’ve probably been holed up here for way too long, but you’re not thinking straight.”

That seemed in insult the other man. “I am thinking straight!”

“Then just—!”

Both men slid down further when gunfire started up again, far across the field. The bullets flew overhead. Wash was glad he was more York-sized and not Maine-sized; the corporal’s massive size would not have worked well for him down there.

“Damn it,” Wash hissed. He didn’t dare sneak a peak. “Do you think they’re getting closer?”

“I don’t know,” the other man said. He glared up at the sky with those blazing green eyes. “Bloody Jerries.”

Wash wanted to do something, to fight back, but anybody who had been in the army as long as he had, who had seen the shit that was out there, knew when it was time to sit and wait for back up.

“How long ‘til your friends show?” the Englishman asked, his indifference forced and not quite able to hide the tension running through his voice.

Wash licked his lips and tasted gunpowder and mud. “Soon.”

“That’s not encouraging,” the Englishman muttered.

Deciding to ignore that, Wash shifted over to the other side. The gunfire had stopped and he had to assume they were reloading. He dared to peer over the edge, bringing up his field binoculars. The rain blurred too much of it out, but he could barely make out the German holding the _panzerschrek_.

“I think we can get a shot at the Jerry holding the launcher by that gangly tree,” he said. He slowly sat back and offered the binoculars to the other man. “See it?”

That earned him a sneer. “I’m not sticking my head out,” the Englishman said.

Wash grit his teeth and shoved the binoculars at him. “Just do it, damn it.”

Grumbling, the Englishman slowly uncoiled, purposely banging his knees into Wash’s as he shifted around. Using the binoculars, he mimicked Wash’s quick glance over the edge of the foxhole.

“See it?” Wash asked.

“Yeah, I do,” the man snapped. He slid back down, tossing him the binoculars back. “What about it?”

Wash nodded his head toward the gun next to the man’s legs. “You have that sniper rifle. Use it.”

For whatever reason, that prompted the man to look indignant. “Why don’t you just— _augh_!” He grabbed the rifle, his movements jerky. “ _Fine_.”

“You’ll likely only have one shot,” Wash warned as the man primed the rifle and adjusted himself to take aim.

“Shut up,” the Englishman snapped, squinting into the scope.

Wash leaned into the mud, trying not to expose too much of himself as he sought out where their enemies were. “Their attention seems to be moving toward the west, where my division should be coming up—”

“Seriously, shut the fuck up,” Church hissed, hunching down even further down as he braced the rifle into the mud.

“Then take the shot,” Wash said, nervously watching the Germans moving. Someone was going up to the guy with the launcher with what looked like a shell; they were reloading it.

If they were going to do it, it had be—

Wash didn’t flinch at the rifle going off, since he knew it was coming, but he did want to say some very choice words when he saw the bullet ricochet three feet above the Germans—no where near the _panzerschrek_ —and do nothing but alert the Germans to their position again.

Both men flung themselves down into the muddy foxhole just as a wave of bullets came soaring across the field at them. The Englishman swore loudly and Wash did his best not to start punching him.

“Well, that was _great_ ,” he growled out instead. Both flinched at the bullets that sometimes seemed to arc just a little too lowly for comfort.

“S-shut up!” the Englishman exclaimed, embarrassed and angry. “The sun was in my eyes!”

Wash stared at him. “There is no sun. It’s raining. It’s been pouring rain ever since I landed in this god-awful country.”

“Well, you can just—,” the man began to say, but strangely, he stopped. He blinked at Wash. “Were you on the beaches?”

“Yeah,” Wash said, frowning.

The other man made a face, strangely sheepish. “I lucked out and came in after the first wave. Heard it was bad.”

That was one way of saying it.

“It was worse,” Wash said, looking away.

He had been transferred with North to the 17th Armored Division and the 67th Tank Battalion just a month later. Out of one death trap and into another, the other blond had joked. Wash liked tanks enough, but North was right. Death certainly liked to box him in.

Sitting in a muddy hole, which was the only barrier between him and a rocket to the face, sort of drove the point home.

The guns kept firing. Wash didn’t know what the Jerries were hoping to obtain. It was only the two of them left. Maybe the Germans didn’t know that. Wash hoped the gunfire would be loud enough to warn the 67th before they got there. If anything, being a distraction might be the only good the two of them were at the moment.

“Name’s Washington,” he said, breaking the silence.

That earned him a snort. “Of course it is. General?”

Wash glanced at the other man. “No, really. David Washington. Staff Sergeant, 67th Armored Battalion.”

The Englishman stared at him and then offered his hand. “Lance Corporal Leonard Church,” he said. “5th Armored Division.”

They shook; Church had a surprising grip. “Pleased to meet you, Lance Corporal,” Wash said, sighing.

“Wish I could say the same,” Church drawled.

They both flinched as the ground around them literally shook from another _panzerschrek_ blast. Wash wondered if the dirt around them would ever cave in. He wondered if being smothered was any better than being torn to pieces by scraps of metal.

“Hope your friends get here soon,” Church said, voice low.

Wash grimaced. “Yeah, me, too.”

It was too easy to think Captain York and the others wouldn’t get there in time. They had seen their fair share of trouble before, but they always managed to get out of it, with few injuries to boot. There was always the chance this time would be the last. Even with months of learning that fact, every time he made it out made it harder to accept that reality.

He was surprised when Church suddenly poked his arm. Turning, Wash saw the man was offering him a metal case; white rolls peeked out from the top.

“Cigarette?” Church asked.

Wash could have kissed him.

“Thanks,” he said, accepting one and then fumbling for his light. “Remind me, I’ll return the favor if I ever get to Rethel.”

“Yeah, right,” Church muttered, already looking away as he pulled out his own.

Wash offered his lighter and Church leaned forward with the cigarette held between his lips to reach the flame. Two wisps of smoke drifted and faded in the tiny trench, with the two men sitting there in silence. The gunfire had petered out and Wash could only hope their enemies wouldn’t think to get closer while they just sat there. Honestly, there was little else they could do.

Church shifted, making a soft sound that Wash belatedly realized was a laugh.

“You know…” the Lance Corporal began. He smiled, the gesture twisted slightly as he held the lit cigarette between his fingers. “This was definitely not how I expected to spend my afternoons in September.”

“This year?” Wash asked.

“Ever.”

“Heh.” Wash closed his eyes and leaned against the muddy wall. “Me neither.”

Church continued. Wash could hear the bitter smile in his voice. “If we ever do manage to push into Germany, I plan on seeking out the opportunity to meet _Herr_ Hitler and stick my boot right up his arse. It would be the least I could do, after sacrificing two Septembers already.”

“Well, let’s just hope you wouldn’t have to shoot him.”

“You know what? Give me my cigarette back.”

Wash chuckled and merely took another drag. He breathed out more frosted air than smoke.

A lot of men died in the mud, he reasoned. He didn’t deserve a better fate than any of them. He knew it.

That’s why when the silence was suddenly shattered by an ear-splitting blast, Wash felt a little guilty.

Church had slammed further down into the hole, panicked, but Wash—he knew that sound anywhere. The old _Mother of Invention_ was a temperamental patchwork of a machine, but the tank had the best crew he knew of anywhere.

“Your friends?” Church asked, a bit wary. They both flinched as the resounding counter-explosions followed. A full out fight was inevitable, though Wash knew which side would be running or dead soon.

“The 67th never disappoints,” Wash said, speaking loudly over the noise. He grinned as he dared to peek out. He saw the row of American tanks make impressive ground, pushing the Germans back as they abandoned their posts.

“Good,” Church said. “Now, get the fuck out of my hole.”

That made Wash laugh as he slid back into the foxhole. “You bring the charm and grace of the Empire with you, Church.”

“Get the fuck out,” Church repeated, impatient. He threw the remains of his cigarette into the mud and stomped it out without ever standing up.

Death might like boxing him in, but Wash kept slipping out of its grasp somehow. If he were a godly kind of man, he’d think he was meant for a higher purpose.

He knew he wasn’t and didn’t mind it a bit. When that last round when off and silence fell over the field—and English dominated the landscape instead of _Deutsch_ —Wash leaned over and grabbed Church’s face. Sputtering, the Englishman flailed rather dramatically as Wash firmly kissed him on the cheek.

Onto another box, he thought.

“Thanks for the smoke,” he said, teasing as he sat back.

Church sputtered, turning a vivid red under the mud and grime.

“ _Get out,_ ” he said, so venomously, Wash burst out laughing.

He was still laughing by the time North came jogging up, concerned only until he saw a British officer half-strangling Wash in the muddy basin of the foxhole. Wash stole four more cigarettes before watching Church climb out to rejoin his own crew. The Englishman spared him a look—of either irritation or what passed as neutrality for the dour man.

“See you in Rethel,” Church said, both sarcastic and with an actual, stubborn sort of promise.

_Oh._

Wash grinned tiredly while watching Church walking off into the gloom.

It stopped raining.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/Ns** :  
> -Mismatching historical armored divisions here to avoid having an actual historic team listed. Also scrambled up the routes, tanks and locations. Not sure if the area actually saw this sort of warfare, but the whole region was definitely in similar conditions.  
> -Tank crews would often name their tanks. Church’s crew’s tank is obviously named Sheila.  
> -Jerries is just a slang term the British and Americans used for the Germans. Gerry-Jerry, Germans, etc.
> 
>   
>    
> **Artwork**   
> 
> 
>   
>  Artwork by [Megneato](http://megneato.tumblr.com/)
> 
> **An Epilogue of Sorts** :  
>   
>  by [happyfunballxd](http://happyfunballxd.tumblr.com/)


End file.
